Monday, March 24, 2008

Oh woe is me.

Dear Abby Voodoo:

Will you please advise me on how to tell our computer friends not to send "junk" e-mail? My husband and I annoyed with all the chain letters, jokes, cartoons, opinion letters, cutesy pictures, etc. we are receiving.

Stupid Fuck

Dear Stupid Fuck:

What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have some sort of short circuit in your brain? You honestly believe that, because you don't dig something, the rest of the world has to suck it up and accommodate you?

Some dipshit sends the same ol' shit that everyone else has been sending, and this is the biggest problem you have? There's a war going on, there's governmental idiots devaluing the dollar, gasoline's 4 bucks a gallon, there's a recession going on, there's a sub-prime loan mess, and this is the biggest gripe you have?

Give me a fucking break! Repeat after me: "The motherfucking world does not revolve around me."

Yeah, the shit's annoying, but ADULTS (which you aren't because you're wasting everyone's time writing into some advice columnist instead of dealing with shit yourself) shake their head, say "BYE" and throw the shit in the same place they would toss those stupid vinyl siding advertisements that wind up in their mailbox on Wednesdays: THE TRASH.

You see that key on your keyboard? The one that says "DEL"? That, is a delete key. It sends shit into the trash.


You Gotta Be Shittin' Me

Dear Abby Voodoo:

My husband gets aggravated with romantic commercials on television -- the ones where men do sweet things for their wives, like putting jewelry on them while they sleep, or pulling out that special gift at the dinner table. He says the commercials try to make men feel guilty because they aren't like the one's portrayed.

I have tried telling him that men are, indeed, this way, but I couldn't think of any examples other than my brother and my father, who are very romantic.

There are more than two men who excel at romance, aren't there? Don't most men know how to sweep a woman off her feet?

My head is up my ass

Dear Head:

Your husband is a smart man. He sees through bullshit. And that's what commercials are: bullshit. They are designed to get you to do something you wouldn't normally have to do. If they weren't, and they were designed to get you to do something you'd normally do, why the fuck would the company waste money on advertising? They'd pocket the advertising budget and go to the titty bar.

You, on the other hand, are one deluded fool. You try to contradict his argument with examples that are off the same fool-tree that you come from? You got to be shitting me! Your moron brother and your foolish father aren't romantic if they run right out and buy some over-priced shit to stick on their ol' ladies while they sleep. That isn't romance, that is called being a SUCKER. There's also another term that's involved when someone coughs up some sort of monetary consideration to get access to some broad's pants. The person coughing up the goods is called a JOHN, and the chick who gets it is called a HO.

It's you, and those other dingbat broads like you who are responsible for this nonsense. There's plenty of guys out there who are romantic. In fact, most guys are. Only they're not out there emptying their wallet at Jared or Saks Fifth Avenue. They're out there doing non-monetary things to show their love for someone. They'll cook dinner for her. They'll give her a massage. They'll leave a love-note someplace that she'll find it. They'll burn her a CD of love songs that remind her how he feels about her. You dumb bastards never notice it because the only thing that registers in your pea-brain is the amount of money blown.

Why don't you get your fucking head out your fucking ass and start focusing on what you have instead of all the shit you don't. Maybe then you'll start seeing those gestures your husband does for you and the fact he does them because he LOVES you will sink into your thick fucking skull.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

She's ignored when dining out

Dear Abby Voodoo:

You printed a letter from a woman who told you her pet peeve was that when she and her friends went to restaurants, they were addressed as "you guys" by the servers.

Now let me share my pet peeve: What really frosts me is the way some waiters address only my husband. They greet only him when we arrive, and thank only him when we leave. Apparently I am invisible! If they don't value my business, why should I give it to them.

-Windmill Fighter

Dear Windmill Fighter:

There's a reason women are addressed as "you guys". It's because they look, dress, swear, act, and are generally poor caricatures of men. Best man for the job is a woman and all that nonsense.

Some reasons for waiters not addressing you:

When it's your husband leaning out the window to place the order in the clown's head, and when it's your husband grabbing the bag from the drive-thru window, OF COURSE THEY'RE ONLY GOING TO ADDRESS HIM you fucking idiot.

And yes, you're a fucking idiot. Most dipshits who suffer this "indignity" refuse to grace that restaurant with their presence again, tell their friends to do the same, and leave it at that. But no, you have to turn it into a national emergency and gripe about it to some cunt in the newspaper who can do absofuckinglutely nothing about it instead of telling the one guy that can: YOUR HUSBAND. He's the only one who can do anything about it because he's the one that's paying the tab. You dumb broads have been harping about how equal you are, yet, you never can seem to pick up the dinner tab. So of course they're only going to acknowledge him, he's the one directly responsible for THEIR tip, so he's the only one that counts.

Why are you even bothering others with this shit? Go pester the guy who had the misfortune of marrying your anal-retentive ass and leave those of us with more pressing matters to attend to alone.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

What's Mine Is Mine, What's Yours Is Mine

Dear Abby Voodoo:

I am in my 40s, single, and have bought a house. There is no man in my future. My parents helped me by giving me the down payment. They expect me to pay them back plus interest.

My parents paid for my sisters' weddings and also helped with my brother's wedding. Because they didn't have to pay for a wedding for me, I think the down payment should be considered "wedding money," and I should no be allowed to pay it back. What is your opinion?

Future Cat Lady

Dear Future Cat Lady:

1. It's not your money.
2. You ought to be on your fucking knees thanking your parents for loaning your ass the money. Your parents aren't going to foreclose on you if you miss a payment. Your parents aren't going to send Nicky the Bull and Icepick Vinny to collect if you miss a payment. You're getting a fucking bargain.
3. I can see why there's no man in your future. You lack the financial foresight to save your own fucking money for your own fucking down payment and instead hit your ol' man up for a loan. Then, when you get it, you try to renegotiate. You're a real fucking prize, aren't you? I bet some ex-boyfriend sits in a bar and buys drinks for his buddies on the day he broke up with your mangy ass.

The fact of the matter is, you took the money under a certain set of parameters. By taking the money under those parameters, you agreed to them. The time for negotiation was before you took the money, NOT AFTER. You're in no position to make demands.

I bet what really happened is that you got this loan from your parents. And you used it to get into a house you probably wouldn't normally afford without their help. Now, you're finding out between the mortgage and this loan, it's putting a serious crimp in your shoe-shopping, bauble-binging, materialistic/hedonistic/consumeristic lifestyle. Now you want to get out from under it while still keeping what you've connived your way into.

So, you go after the weakest link, the people that brought you into this world.

You motherfucking spoiled parasite. I hope your parents have the good sense to tell you to eat a bag of shit and die so that you end up learning your lesson. Because you're dishonorable, you're a shitbird. And my only regret is that your parents don't have the mob connections to send Nicky the Bull and Icepick Vinny over to your place to help educate you as to the error of your ways.




Thursday, January 31, 2008


Inevitably, there will be some speculation as to the definition of "shitbird". This post serves to clarify what exactly is meant by the word.

The exact origins of "Shitbird" are unknown, however, the term is generally thought to have originated at some point during the illustrious history of the United States Marine Corps.

A shitbird, quite simply, is a fuckup. It's someone who doesn't pull his own weight. Think Private Pyle in "Full Metal Jacket". Unfortunately, these sort of people are the sort who never seem to suffer the punishment for their transgressions, everyone else has to suck it up for these people's sins.

In essence, a shitbird is a parasite, a foul pile of shit who screws up everyone else's groove without suffering for it.

The cure for shitbird is PAIN. The more pain the shitbird suffers, the less incentive they have to continue their current course of action. Unfortunately, there are some people out there whose shitbird characteristics are so ingrained within their soul that they are essentially incurable by mere amateurs. Only Drill Sergeants have the proper attitude, the motivation, and the 24/7 commitment it takes to cure the most shitbird of shitbirds.

If you think you might be a shitbird, you probably are one. It would behoove you to stop. If you think you know a shitbird, you probably do, and it's up to you to help cure them for society's benefit.

Been 20 years since my last lay

Dear Abby Voodoo:

I am a 61 year old man who has been faithful in his 35 year marriage. But I am very unhappy because I am continually hounded by my wife about my previous mistakes. The incidents involved alcohol and smoking and occurred many years ago. She has never forgiven me and brings up the subject frequently.

My wife has withheld sex for 20 years because of her jealousy about my love for my mother. (Mom died in 1994.)

I am so alone but my wife will not seek counseling. I feel like I'm huddled in a corner....

Married to a Harpy

Dear Married to a Harpy:

You are to be commended for sticking around for 35 years, 20 of which were spent with out some nookie. However, the time has come to cut your losses.

Seriously, you need to talk to an attorney. Don't tell that nagging harpy you married about your intentions. Find out what you can do legally to protect your ASSets from this raging cunt. 20 years without sex? She's been getting room, board, and access to your income for those 20 years yet can't bring herself to throw you some intimacy once in a while?

This cunt's beyond saving. She's not going to change because, in her mind, she's morally right. She's punishing you for shit you did an aeon ago. Since she still gets room and board, and spending money, she has no incentive to change her ways. She might have been sweet and kind, with face of fair, flaxen hair, and cornflower eyes, but now she's a parasite. And we have a word for parasites like this: SHITBIRD. You don't need counselling, you need legal advice. You're 61 years old. The average life span for a man is 74 years. You have 13 years to live as a happy man. There's plenty of older women out there that would gladly shack up with you for a dinner and a movie simply because, at their age, the next bus is unlikely to show up.

You owe it to yourself to be happy. You don't have to put up with this cunt's bullshit anymore. In this society, you are under no obligation to provide for shitbirds. There isn't a guy out there that wouldn't give you a slap on the back and tell you that you did the right thing getting rid of this parasite. And if any women give you shit, piss on 'em, there's a lot more that want male attention.

To the rest of you young folk that think the golden ring gets you a ticket into the sexual promised land, read what this dude says. Think about it. Ask yourself "Will this happen to me?" And if the answer is still "No", go to the mall and watch the poor sonofabitch schlepping bags of overpriced shit from Kirklands and Bath and Body Works for his 'ol lady. Look at his eyes. You'll find your answer.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

She loves you, NOT

One of these guys has a happy future ahead of him

Courtesy of John Sedgewick:

Like every husband who suddenly turns into an ex, Martin Paul, a pleasant, unassuming 51-year-old, knows exactly where he was when it happened. He was sitting on the back porch of his pricey hilltop house in the Boston suburbs one sunny Saturday morning, relaxing over coffee.

Paul is a professional collector, primarily of coins, but of other rare objects as well: Sonny Liston’s ring belt; a submarine that appeared in the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me. It wasn’t easy to build up his collecting business, but he had finally got it humming, and he was pulling down close to seven figures a year. Plus, the oldest of his three sons had suffered a frightening brain injury, but after two years of treatment, he had finally recovered enough to go to college. For the first time in a very long while, life was good.

And so, that Saturday, he wanted to tell his wife he was thinking about finally easing off a little. They’d started going on expensive vacations in Europe and Hawaii, and he figured she’d be pleased at the prospect of taking more trips together, or at least at the prospect of seeing him around the house a little more, and not buried in his basement office. He had met her in graduate school over a quarter century ago, and they’d had their ups and downs, but he was still crazy about her. And he thought that, with a little more time together, she’d be crazy about him again too.

But no. She scarcely listened to any talk of retirement, or of vacations, or of anything he had to say. She had plans of her own.

“I want a divorce,” she said.

Paul was so stunned that he thought he must have misheard her. But her face told him otherwise. “She looked like the enemy,” he says. He started to think about everything he’d built: the thriving business, the wonderful family, the nice life in the suburbs. And he thought of her, and how much he still loved her. And then, right in front of her, he started to cry.

That night, he found a bottle of whiskey, and he didn’t stop drinking it until he nearly passed out.

Things turned shitty very fast. His wife took out a temporary restraining order, accusing him of attempting to kidnap their youngest son. The claim was never proved in court. Then, with the aid of some high-priced lawyers, she extracted from him a whopping $50,000 a month—a full 75 percent of his monthly income. Barred from the house, he was not allowed regular access to the office he used to generate that income. (On the few times he was permitted inside, his wife did not let him use the bathroom. She insisted that he go outside in the woods.) “My lawyer kept telling her lawyers, ‘You’re killing the Golden Goose,’ ” recalls Paul. “But they didn’t care.”

Crushed by the payments, and unable to work, he soon faced such a severe cash-flow crisis that he had to declare bankruptcy. His wife still did not relent. She charged that Paul had been abusive toward one of their sons. Paul says the charge is absurd, but it did its work, limiting his visitation rights.

Paul was sleepless and nerve wracked; his spirits plunged. He still missed his old life with his family. He missed the sound of it—the bustle of all the activity, the life. “I can’t stand the silence,” he says. “I miss hearing my wife breathe as she lay in bed beside me.” In his desperation, he twice overdosed on prescription medication, but managed to call 911 each time before the drugs took full effect, and medics rushed him to the hospital in time. “I don’t want to die,” he says wearily. “I want to live. But I can’t live with this torture.” He did manage to keep a few mementos of his former life. Pictures, mostly. But also the kids’ baby shoes. “I was always the emotional one,” he says. “But that’s all I have—the shoes, a few pictures. That’s all. I used to be jovial, happy. But not now. I’m a broken man.”

Long before his wife came along, a frame-store owner named Jordan Appel, 55, had built a fine house for himself atop West Newton Hill in one of the fancier Boston suburbs. He loved bringing in a wife and then adding two children. “It felt so wonderful to say ‘my wife’ and ‘my children’ and feel part of a community.” He volunteered for the preschool’s yard sale; his wife took up with a lover. Sometimes she slept with him in Appel’s own house; in time, she decided to divorce Appel. As these things go, he was obliged to leave the house, and, as it happened, the community too. Money was so tight that he ended up sleeping in a storage room above his frame shop two towns away. His ex-wife works part-time on the strength of Appel’s child custody and alimony payments, and spends time with her boyfriend in Appel’s former house. She lives rather well, and he has to make $100,000 a year to support her and the children, which amounts to 70-hour workweeks. One day, he went back to his house and discovered many of his belongings out on the sidewalk with the trash. “My body feels like it’s dissolving in anger,” he says. “I’m in an absolute rage every single day.”

This settles some issues:

1. Cupcake is only looking out for herself. Not for you. You're replaceable, and will be upgraded ASAP. And she WILL use YOUR kids and YOUR government to get what she wants regardless of what it does to you. That, my friends, is a mercenary.

2. She doesn't care about your shit. Which is why she wants it in the divorce. She doesn't want it herself, mind you, she just DOESN'T want you to have it.

3. Fathers really do care about their kids. That's what drives them to provide a home and security for them. It's a male version of "nesting". Kicking him out of his nest is akin to destroying him.

Now, given these 3 statements, who in their right mind would get married?